


Overdue

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), Blow Jobs, Community: wincestreversebang, Curtain Fic, Episode Related, Episode: s12e11 Regarding Dean, First Time, M/M, Memory, Minor canon divergence, Seasickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 09:30:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11101737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: “Maybe Sam’s right about the time off. Whatever else that he-witch did, seems like he defragged Dean’s hard drive. Changed all the file pathways, because, the shit he keeps remembering…”or: Post-12x11, Sam and Dean take a well-deserved island vacation.





	Overdue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art Masterpost ~ Wincest BB ~ LaughableLament](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11100306) by [2BlueShoes (Forhimxx)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forhimxx/pseuds/2BlueShoes). 



> Mountains of gratitude to [2blueshoes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Forhimxx/pseuds/2BlueShoes), for your artwork (which is spectacular) and your patience (which is saintly). And as ever, [crowroad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad), to whom words like “beta” and “thanks” cannot do justice.

Prologue

Sam wheels it, quick as he dares through Eureka Springs. Worries: If the Laughlins won’t cooperate, won’t give up the book, if he’s too late…

Bullshit curse, bullshit case, and even if Rowena fixes…

Sam digs out his phone.

“How-do.” Callahan Webster picks up on the first ring.

“Mr. Webster? This is Sam Winchester.”

“SAM! Well this is a PLEASURE!”

Sam shrinks from the phone.

“Now how many times’ve I told you, son, you call me Cal!”

“Yes, sir. Uh. Cal.”

“What can I do you for, Sam? Tell me y’all’s comin to Houston—Peggy’ll flip; she’s powerful sweet on you boys…” Cal pauses. “S’everything okay, Sam?”

“It will be. We’re just… looking to lay low. Dean got hit with a spell and I—”

“Say no more; I got the perfect spot. I’ll text you the GPS and security codes. You boys like fishin?”

 

**

Dean lays hands on Baby’s roof, keys tucked in a palm. He remembers—

 

_You’ve got a gun and a post-it note. Corpse leaks out of a bullet hole you probably made. Two guys bust through a door, down the stairs and you draw—_

_“No-no-no!” Tall one points to himself. “Brother!” Points to the other one. “Witch.”_

_…as in, ‘KILLING BULLETS.’_

_You can trust him. Squeeze the trigger._

 

“It’s the, uh, the shiny one that’s—” Ohhh, Sam’s got jokes now.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Get in the car.”

Sam squints. “You should let me drive.”

“Dude,” Dean gripes, but he switches spots. Bumps Sam’s shoulder where their paths meet, flips keys in the air.

Sam grabs them.

Pulling out of town, Dean hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Yo. Bunker’s that way.”

“Yep.” Sam grips the wheel, ten-and-two. “You remember—” Flinch. Gonna be a touchy subject for a while. “Cal Webster?”

 

_Sport coat and a cowboy hat. “I hear tell y’all’s the best, which money and determination’ve made me accustomed to.”_

 

“Rich asshole, possessed wife, I remember.”

“He’s not an asshole, dude, he’s—putting us up in his island vacation house. I’d say he’s a saint.”

“Island vaca—for what, Sam, you catch us a case? Are we hunting a ghost pirate? Please say we’re hunting a ghost pirate.”

“We’re not hunting anything.” Sam glances over. “We’re gonna lay low til we see what that spell did to you.”

 

_Knives in your lungs and fuckin Ruby, thigh-squeezed, ash black tasting, spit and blood. Gagging._

 

Yeah, Dean remembers.

“Look. I set this up cause I figured…” Sam bites back an _if_ , “once you got clear of that curse we’d disappear awhile.”

“To an island.”

“I didn’t know it’d be an island. You met Cal; I expected… deer camp in the Hill Country.”

Dean chuckles. “Kinda be more our speed, don’tcha think?”

“I didn’t complain.” Hint of a dimple, sing-song: “You can go fishing…”

“You think I’m that easy?”

“I just think…” Sam’s shoulders roll. “We’ve earned a break. Nothing’s trying to kill the world right now, why don’t we—”

Get drunk, and—shit, don’t sing that. “Get our Jimmy Buffett on?” Backhand him. “You’re gonna be so cute with your fruity cocktails.”

“Fuck off.”

Miles roll. Baby blows through Memphis. Under the pyramid, over the river. Dean could do for some shuteye. When he wakes up, Sam’s stopping outside Tupelo, motel next to a diner, Elvis-themed.

Waitress, forties. “Jenny Beth,” Dean says. “That’s gotta have a story.”

She shrugs. “There was four Jennys in my school class: Jenny Ann, Jenny Lynn, Jenny Sue, and Jenny Beth.”

“Awesome.” Dean grins. “I’ll have the-ah, patty melt, American cheese, and-ahhh… you know what the home fries.”

“You got it.”

“Thanks, Jenny Beth.” He gives her the lashes. She don’t flirt back, damn shame, but she’s got a ring.

Sam orders something gross, probably. Gets his laptop out and disappears.

 

_You’re not… you._

_Sam… Wesson? Pulls up YouTube videos which you should be watching except you can’t take your eyes off how his shoulders slope, eyes change, how his polo shirt kinda hugs… You just met this guy you can’t—_

 

Dean shifts. Amped. Knows their lives are weird but… _Zachariah_ , finally, comes to him. Smarmy scumbag, screwing around with their heads.

“Patty melt, home fries.”

Plate clanks Dean out of it. Sam’s stashing his laptop.

“Chicken club, potato salad.”

“Thank you,” Sam says.

Bottle of ketchup. “Can I get y’all anything else?”

Dean looks over the table, shrugs.

“I kinda like Heinz 57 on the home fries, you wanna try it?”

Dean lights up. “Yes!” Backroad diners. Jenny Beth steers him right too; the 57’s great.

 

**

Vague disappointment when the clerk at the Blue Hawaii Motor Lodge ain’t another Jenny. Wallpaper beach scene greets them in Room 68. White sand, which—Dean hates to break it to em, ain’t Hawaiian. Bedside lamps of palm tree trunks with fronds printed on the shades. Door and drawer pulls shaped like shells.

Dean gets out his phone, scopes out the weird news, local night life.

Sam runs, showers right after and, “I’m hittin the rack.”

“You don’t want a beer? Pregame your, tropical getaway some?”

He pales. “I’m tired, Dean, I almost lost you again, and—” Rabbit punch, but, point to Sam. “I just wanna sleep.” Sam says. “You should go out, though. Go nuts. I’ll drive tomorrow and—”

“Yeah that’s not happenin.”

Ghost of a grin. “G’night, Dean.”

“Yeah. Night, Sam.”

Dean watches out his peripheral; Sam wallers in.

 

_“Please, Dean. You’re the only one who can do it.”_

_Mouth’s so close, say anything—“I promise.” Lie to his face. Cut out your own heart rather than…_

_“Thank you. You are—” Sparks where he cups your jaws._

_“All right. Come on.” Push him down. Don’t let him pull you. Pay no mind, pale flash of skin._

 

Dean flips on the local news, flops on his bed. Slams back a couple of beers. Ain’t right, leavin Sam hangin like…

 

 _Sam’s last breath doesn’t stop the rush of blood between your hands that soaks the Cold Oak dirt. Scream_ —

 

Dean jerks awake.

Infomercial promises, “One natural cleaner can do it all!”

He cuts the TV. Dumps his boots.

 

**

Highway cuts straight and flat through the Florida trees. Woods got a weird vibe, pines mostly the same size, same age, all kinda, too far apart. Not enough cover.

 

_You’d feel better with another couple of layers to pile over this jumpsuit. Not that you’d find anything to stop bullets. Sam keeps lookin at you, tryin to have the Conversation and you swear to God this time if he opens his mouth—_

 

Dean balls his fists. Maybe Sam’s right about the time off. Whatever else that he-witch did, seems like he defragged Dean’s hard drive. Changed all the file pathways, because, the shit he keeps remembering…

Bend in the road and the forest breaks and—ocean, black and heaving. Moonlight gleams off heavy surf.

Sam points: “See the bridge?”

Barely. Lights blink off the piers. Makes him itch in the shoulder blades, once they get up on it. Smooth and modern, arching high to let boats underneath—it just, ain’t right, four lanes of asphalt out in the goddamned ocean.

Sam points him west when they hit land again, and they wind through a village. Rows of homes on stilts pass by to their left, touristy businesses on the right. Café, souvenirs, oyster bar… Island’s so narrow, high spots Dean can see water on both sides. Palms and pines push out of the dunes and a lighthouse shines from the square.

“That gate up ahead,” Sam says, once the last civilization runs out.

Dean punches a passcode and black steel bars roll sideways. “Swanky.” Dark out this way. Hurricane houses not bigger than the ones in town, just further apart.

Sam’s saying, “—it’s 53 Gulfside Drive, so you’ll bear left—”

“Toward the Gulf, I got it.”

Cal’s place looks yellowish, maybe less ugly in daylight. Dean pulls into a carport under the stilts. Panel of whitewashed lattice sets off a stairway up to the house, and past that, some kinda patio. Palmettos flank the foundation, swish in the night wind.

Sam types another passcode and they’re in.

“Fuck me, are you kidding?” Dean drops his bags on a gray stone breakfast bar. Fridge alone’s worth more than all his worldly possessions, lifetime. Leather sofas, fireplace, biggest fuckin TV he’s ever seen.

Sam jabbers, “—bedrooms…upstairs…private bath—”

Whatever. Dean pulls open the French doors. Cops a squat in a lounge chair, sinks in the cushions. “I’m good.”

Sam follows him out, leans back on the far rail. “So you approve?”

“What’s not to like, man? S’fuckin paradise.”

Tense line holds fast in Sam’s shoulders. 

“Right?”

Sam nods. “I’m gonna go upstairs. Get a shower, some shuteye.”

“You do that.” Dean’s thinkin about sleepin right here, under the waves and stars…

 

_You only know like, three constellations. “Okay that’s the Little Dipper, see?”_

_“Uh-huh.” Sammy’s long-haired, wide-eyed._

_Sharing a blanket, bed of a rusty pickup. “And there’s the Big Dipper. You can use it to find the North Star.” Poke his ribs and make him giggle. “Never get lost.”_

 

“You-uh… feeling any after-effects?” Sam squints, head to the side.

“No.” Except, Dean’s not sure he’d know. “You? Seein anything?”

Sam breathes, low-key labored. “No…”

“So let’s take the win.”

“Right.” Sam hesitates but goes back inside.

Water’s loud. Though, Dean guesses he’ll get used to it. Air smells salty-fishy and seriously, he can’t say when he’s seen so many stars. Damp out here and not, chilly exactly? But he’ll be more comfortable indoors, hauls himself up.

Sam’s pulling a glass of water from the fridge door.

“Hey when’s our fishing trip?”

“Monday.”

“So, tomorrow we drink pink booze, go sun and swim.”

“Cal says it’ll probably be too cold to swim.”

“Cal lives in Houston. We’ll be fine.”

Sam half-grins. Long moment…

 

_Sam sways, swallows. Kid got big while you were downstairs. Bobby gets between you when he lunges, else you’da took that knife away and—_

_“Are you two… together?”_

 

Fuckin Ruby.

“I’m hangin it up,” Sam says.

“Yeah. Sweet dreams, princess.”

Sam flips bird over a retreating shoulder.

 

**

Salt air. Dean kinda wonders if demons would have a hard time breathin. Then again, Ruby ate French fries, which… Who fuckin knows? Probably more witch shit.

Fishing guides: Junior, Trip, and Mikey Andrews meet them at the marina. Father and sons, all white teeth, blue eyes, and red hair, sun-bleached almost blonde. Dean puts Junior his age, plus five on the long end. Mikey’s maybe twenty and Trip looks all of sixteen. Family of four joins up, the Robertsons—Jim and Shirley, tween Hillary and ten-year-old Jack. Midwest, probably Michigan from their round _o_ ’s.

 

_Candles and cookie jars don’t jive with the stone bowls, poison herbs. Sam’s tied behind you. “Dean? You okay?”_

_And the last thing you oughta be thinking is hard-wide-shoulders, “Yeah, I think so,” thick-strong-arms._

_Mrs. God chirps, “Ooh, and here we thought you lazybones were gonna sleep through all the fun stuff!”_

 

Boat called _Family Business_ is a fuckin omen. Dean damn near sprints down the pier. High waves, windy and overcast, but Junior assures:

“This mess won’t break til we’re all home grillin. Meantime, cool weather brings up baitfish. Somebody gon get a bigun today.”

Mikey fires a row of outboard motors and Junior sets up at the wheel. Green water rocks around them; marina disappears off their stern.

Trip pops coolers, leads a tour. “This one’s cold drinks. Cokes and water, lemonade.” He moves along, “These here’re bait. Don’t mix em up.” Gap-toothed grin from a ring of peach fuzz.

Hillary screams at the sight of squid and flees for the sun deck.

Mikey steps in, “If she’s gonna fish, she needs to…”

Jack pulls a face. “She’s just here to take selfies.”

Jim laughs. “Speaking of…” like an incantation, summoning Shirley’s phone. “Everybody get in. Captain Junior, you mind? Hillary get over here!”

Jack rolls eyes and scuffs his soles. Hillary checks her teeth in her camera.

Shirley trills, “Hey there! You two fellas! Come on!” She tilts her head.

Dean backs up. “I don’t wanna be on the Internet.”

Conversation killer, silent stares but Sam—

“We’re-uh…” saves the day. Digs out a badge, “Federal agents. Work a lot of undercover. Kind of a habit.” Big old dimpled grin and Shirley nods, wide-eyed.

“I understand.” Jim oversells a wink. “Tell ya what. How about just one? For the scrapbook.”

Sam gets Dean’s eyes. “For the scrapbook.” Mouth corners twitch.

Dean glares, low heat. “Hillary,” with the Dad-grin he’s been practicing. “Do me a favor and text me a really embarrassing pic of my partner today, and we’ll be square.”

Hillary’s eyes flick back and forth. Sparkle brown.

 

_Hard barrel stabs your spine._

_“Mom? You know these guys?”_

 

“Done,” Hillary hikes a shoulder.

“Everybody say, ‘It was _this big!_ ’” Jim half-sings. Shirley brandishes a selfie stick.

Dean’s stomach gurgles.

“Y’all let’s get back on it, now,” Junior hollers and Trip says,

“Yessir.”

Dean almost says it with him.

Having a hard time keeping his focus while Mikey walks him through the equipment. Hook, line, rod, reel. Not that different from shoreside. Harness, though. That’s new.

“This here…” Mikey points out a leather cup, “holds the end of your rod.” He grins. “It’ll protect your back, but watch your balls.”

Dean sways. Something he ate this morning’s got him… “Hey, man. I’ma grab one of those waters—” He takes a step, loses all track of his feet.

“Heyyy, you’re looking a little green there, fella,” Jim says, and Dean face-plants—

No. Sam’s got him, hooked around the arm. Dean sees deck boards, railing, ocean…

Puke, looks really awful flyin in the wind.

 

**

He wouldn’t call it equilibrium, more like, at peace with his misery.

Sam brings him a cold rag, can of ginger ale.

“Sammy, just… go watch fuckin dolphins or somethin, I’m fine, man.”

Dean’s dead center of the keel, eyes on the horizon. Stomach still feels infested but he’s got a handle on it.

“Y’guys don’t chase a lot of drug boats, huh?” Jack smirks.

Dean kinda likes him, kinda wants to smack him. “We work outta Kansas, kid, so no.”

Sam shifts, makes some privacy, ox that he is. “I can ask Junior to cut it short.”

“No way.” Dean sways. Sam’s palm burns his bicep. “This is a trip of a lifetime, kid like that,” he nods at Jack. “I ain’t about to be the sick old fart who ruined vacation.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugs. “Trip says you might like the cabin better.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.” Dean faces the bow. Wind in his face helps the sweats anyway.

 

_You get ahold of a Bible, for all that’s helped you before._

_“It's me, Lilith! Oh, I missed you so much.”_

_Sam. Where’s Sam? Sam’s fighting the ghost. Sam’s got this._

_“You’re not real.”_

 

“Hey-uh. Dean?” Trip yells. “This here’s your rig, sir. You got a bite. You wanna try?” Hooked to the rail, Dean’s reel spins and rod arcs down hard.

Dean shoves upright. “Damn right.”

“Sometimes, havin somethin to do…” Trip says.

Sam steadies him, helps him harness up.

Mikey takes his other shoulder. “You do everything I say, hoss, and we’ll get this fish onboard, y’hear me?”

Dean can follow orders. “Yes, sir.”

Mikey grins. “Get ahold of her now, right here, you got it?”

“Got it,” Dean says.

And Mikey turns loose, and Dean’s in the fight of his life with a fish. Hollering: “Reel him! Reel him!” and “Get that rod down!” and “Let him run! Give him line!” and “You got it!”

Then all at once—

“Shark!”

And Sam’s half holding Dean up, and he’s all-in staying with Mikey, so it takes him a minute to realize, “Shark” means, on his hook, and—

“Somebody stole your supper,” Mikey grips his shoulder top, “but you stay with it. We’ll have to turn him loose, but you’ll have a hellofa story!”

Sam’s hand spreads wide, low at Dean’s back. “You doing all right?”

“Aces.” Mostly because he’s puked out, but—

“Just gotta keep him on that hook til he tuckers out,” Trip says.

And Dean nods. Head’s starting to swim again and he leans hard into Sam’s chest, feels fingers flex. Then it’s a lot more hollering and Dean’s down to robot-execute-commands when Trip yells,

“Back! Get back!”

And all the Robertsons whip out phones to capture the eight-foot junior Jaws flopped on the deck. Mikey and Junior swoop in, measure and take more pictures, toss him overboard so fast Dean barely knows what’s happened. Backslaps, Jim and the crew…

“We put a tag on him for the college,” Junior says. “That’s your shark now.”

Smell of fish and Dean hurls over the rail again. Gives up all the sips of ginger ale Sam fed him.

 

**

Dockside, Sam steers him for the nearest bench.

“Dude, seriously. I’m fine.” Gut’s a half a mile out to sea but the spinning’s stopped.

“Yeah cause I’m doing all the work. You’re a giant, drunken baby right now. Can we just, take a minute?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean sits. Lot less breeze, now that they’re off the water. Clouds get black, off to the east. Marina’s quiet, all the commercial crews home for the night and just a few charters running a winter weekday. Sun hangs low; sky bruises up.

Sam parks himself at an angle where he can watch Dean while he’s pretending to look at the waves. Dean gets his eyes, calls him out. Sam shrugs. Two days in the tropics, he’s as brown as Dean can remember since…

 

_“Yellow Eyes? That’s what you saw?”_

_Sam’s slow march from geek boy to Greek god took another level while he was—_

_“You been back practically this whole time?” And you don’t see, don’t wanna see; Sam ain’t right, how he looks at you…_

 

Dean’s nose stings, tops of his cheeks. Must be a spotted lobster, not to mention his mouth tastes like dammit. Sam sweats. Fat drops cling to his temples, slide inside his collar. “Let’s get outta here,” Dean says. “I’m good. I swear.”

“I’m driving.”

Dean knows when he’s licked, no shape to argue.

 

**

He gets down to barefoot and shirtless on his way to the head. Never so happy to see a toothbrush in all his life. Dean doubles up on paste, scrubs every tooth, back of his tongue til he gags. Fishing’s supposed to relax him, and here he’s come out of fistfights in better shape. Harness bruises stripe his back and his hands are blistered. Dean spits, splashes his face and rises to his reflection. Two days ago, a stranger.

 

_“We'll figure it out. All right? We will.”_

_And you look at this beautiful man,_ Sam _, on the edge of the tub and this punch of emotion, you reach…_

_“Dean?”_

_Is that your name?_

_Sam fumbles a beat then his mouth slides open and body bends and you struggle for… lockpicks, that’s what you call them, and tumblers licking in line and Sam makes these, sounds. And you suck his neck, and he leans back, and you look up._

_“Wow, you’re really hot.”_

_Sam freezes._

_“What were we talking about?”_

_And Sam gets up. “You’re Dean Winchester.”_

_You nod. “And Sam is my brother.”_

 

Dean climbs the stairs.

Still no rain, but the lightning out to sea’s a spectacle as the sun goes down. Sam stands lookout, upper deck. Loose white shirt flaps open, sleeves rolled-up. Granny shorts—‘ _Board, shorts_ ’—down by his knees. Hands on the rail.

“Sam, I remember.” Air’s thick, muggy and still.

Sam slumps. “God, Dean. I am so—”

“Rowena smelled bullshit and so did you. Why’d you let me slide?”

“What I did—”

“What? Savin my ass? _Not_ cleanin my clock? Which, you got a free shot comin, man; I deserve worse.”

“You… didn’t know who we were.”

“Yeah, no. I think…” Dean scuffs a toe across a weathered floor board. “I didn’t know anything _but_ who we were.”

Sam turns; wind lifts. Hair in his face like he’s still a kid.

“There at the end,” Dean drifts, “I’d get light-headed and have to think, ‘breathe, dumbass,’ and everything—” First rain splats heavy overhead, “like, lamps, or walls or, or people…” Dean waves a hand around, “didn’t ring a bell.” Hesitates, “But you…” Flat palms Sam’s chest, slides up, squeezes his neck. Sam collapses; forehead knocks Dean’s, shoulders fold, like he’s losing a fight. “You didn’t stop me.” Thumb in the hinge of his jaw—

And, hoo-boy, now they’re kissing. Sam bites, fuckin growls, claws Dean’s belt loops and spins them around, shoves Dean against the rail. “All this time…”

 

_Fourth of July. Sammy looks up and his eyes change color and teeth show clear to the molars. Whole crate of rockets ain’t got nothin on your insides._

 

Sam’s thigh jams between Dean’s legs, rocks up and Dean chokes, gets stiff. Sam groans. “You know how many times?”

“I know, Sammy.” Callused hands up under his shirt, around his ribs. Chill in the air, blown mist. Dean shakes.

“How many years?” Sam pants. “I’m gonna make you forget your _name_ ,” he barks, and it’s hot for like oh-point-one, and then—

“Wow, Sam.”

Stone still.

“Too soon,” and Dean ramps up to a snicker as Sam gets tight in the mouth.

“You’re a dick, you know that.”

Dean nods. Can’t stop touching. Hand around Sam’s hip, plays where the ridge peeks out. Nails in his chest hair. “We should drink.”

“You lost half your intestines in the Gulf of Mexico; you’re drinking Pedialyte.”

“Damn, Sammy, you always this bossy on dates?” Dean eyes him.

Sam blinks. Slow smoky grin.

They never get to the booze. Sam drags Dean straight to his room—biggest, most ridiculous bed Dean’s ever seen. Bamboo or some shit, miles of mosquito netting, mountain of pillows. Bathtub behind a half wall of glass blocks, mirrors all over the place.

Sam draws him up, foot of the bed. “Dean are you—” head shakes; hair flops at his ears. Dean sits. Gets Sam by the shirt and tows him down. “Why now?” Barely audible. Rain comes hammering, drowns out the thunder.

Dean shrugs. “Call it an after-effect.”

Sam’s forehead folds.

“Like I sort of… un-repressed.” Dean picks one of Sam’s buttonholes with his thumbnail.

 

_“You were gonna choose Amara over me.”_

_“Sam, no!” And you know it’s the fucking cloud but—_

_“I can’t fight this. Go before I hurt you!”_

_“No!” Deep breath, smoke swirls. Just gonna go out with him but… “It’s all right. I’m right here. I’m right here.”_

 

Kid’s got a razor smirk. “You. Un-repressed.”

Dean huffs—

“And you didn’t explode?”

“Why are we still talking?” and that gets a laugh. Sam launches up the bed, curls on his side. Dean shoves Sam by a shoulder, rolls him under and Sam goes; legs spread sweet. Dean grinds on him, shatter moans. Gotta be commando, gotta be murder. Ham hand shoves down the back of Dean’s pants, constricts. Dean hisses, pops up, works his fly, and Sam flips Dean on his back. Jeans disappear.

Sam paws over his shins, knees, thighs. Dean’s cock jerks, legs fall apart. Sam’s tongue, hem of his shorts, and his ass jumps off the bed. Smug fucker smiles clear up into Dean’s mouth. Dean drags down Sam’s neck, sweat damp. Jams right in his shorts. Drawstrings cut Dean’s wrist. Sam about sobs.

“Whatchyou into, Sammy?” Dean scratches light around Sam’s root. “Give it to you any way you want it.”

Sam bucks. Cusses. “—shit, god, damn, fuck, Dean—”

 

_“F-fuck you, Dean!” Sam’s voice cracks and you dunno what you did, just sparrin but the kid won’t face you._

 

“You gonna be good for me?” Fingers. Skin over muscle and bone. “Lemme take care a-you? Make you scream for it?”

Sam’s tryin to prop up on one elbow and wrestle his shorts off with the other hand. Dean unties the string and Sam grunts. Teamwork, naked to his knees. Sam rolls off to ditch his shorts and Dean sits up, and Sam…

Stretches his arms up, knuckles the headboard. Hard and red and thick dark hair and heavy balls and damn Dean’s mouth’s dry all of a sudden. Gets Sam’s gaze. Hovers above him. Dick hangs, grazes pubic hair and Sam smells like salt, safe, ocean and sweat. Pressure, leverage, and Dean goes under without a fight. Sam slides fingers down, down and around and Dean starts leaking. Sam groans when his thumb slicks through it.

“This is… Dean, you’re…” Lashes like he wants permission.

Rippled flash and thunder shakes the place. Lights blink off and on and they tense, laugh at each other.

“I got a gun in the nightstand,” Sam says.

“Never doubted it.” Dean pulls him down, kisses him, combs through his hair and tugs. Sam sucks a breath. Rocking, petting down from Sam’s hairline. Dean tweaks a nipple, gets a gasp. Circles around Sam’s navel with his thumb, squeezes Sam’s side. Lips, slow and soft and sweat breaks, slips down Dean’s back. Sam’s got a hand on his ass; pretty sounds pour out. Sam jacks him, grinds them together and Dean could come and die right here, except…

 

_“Whoa, easy, tiger,” and Sam smells like he’s had a chick in here. Might still._

_“You scared the crap outta me!” and you wanna—_

 

“Lemme taste you, Sammy,” and hips crash in and it’s wetter. “Shit, did you just…”

“No,” Sam flutters, wraps them both up, thrusts in his fist, girl slick.

“Fuck, you really are hot.”

Sam draws back. Eyes dart away.

“Sam…” Dean sighs. “You didn’t do wrong, you understand me?”

“I kissed you—”

“Kissed _back._ ”

“—when you weren’t yourself.”

“When I dropped our baggage.”

“That’s not consent.”

“Well you got it now. Retroactively, okay?”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“Says who?”

Sam chuckles.

“Listen, man.” Dean rolls to his side, pulls Sam nose-to-nose. “You always…” Soft kiss. “You know?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, knocks into Dean, “you too.”

 

**

Dean loads duffles and slams the trunk. Heads for the patio, watches the waves.

“Hey.” Sam wraps a hand around Dean’s shoulder. Spent the last two days messing up beds… couches, carpets, lounge chairs. Sam rubbed aloe on Dean’s sunburn and did not fuck around about the Pedialyte. “We don’t have to go yet.”

“Yeah,” Dean groans, “yeah we do. We dunno what’s up with Mom, or Cas… Clock’s tickin on the Devil’s spawn and…”

Sam noses along Dean’s jaw. “You need a shave.”

“So do you, Sasquatch.” Dean gropes around and finds Sam half-mast, growing. Turns to face him. “Anyway you liked it, noises you made all bent over anmff—”

Sam kisses like one of those waves out there. Shoves Dean into a pile of cushions and sinks between his knees. Undoes his shirt, bottom-up, mouths and licks in the opening, and Dean—wouldn’ta thought he had another boner in him—Sam’s killing him, not that he’ll cop to it, but—“Oh my _God_ , Sam,” licks him, root to the slit and around the tip and Dean’s teeth grind, abs clench. Sam spreads wet lips, ducks his head and Dean howls, buries himself to the balls.

 

_“Where, did you learn to suck cock like that?” You’ve had it from pros, and Sammy’s… “Don’t answer that.” ’Cause you oughta thank the guy but you wanna beat him unconscious._

 

Sam’s eyes water but he doesn’t choke. Throat works; spit creeps toward his chin. Faster, and he adds a hand, and Dean thrusts, Sam moans. Dean blows, and it’s both of them, Sam jerks off so they’ll come together and Dean whites out, burns up, yells, “Sam!” and they sweat through the aftershocks.

Pant through the afterglow.

Sam curls, half on Dean's chest.

“One more night,” Dean says.

Sam grins. “I didn’t pack.”

 

**

For once, the Winchesters leave town in daylight. Stop by the general store for road snacks; wait to buy gas on the mainland.

Back in that weird-ass forest when Sam drags up a duffle.

“Hey, um, I gotcha something.” Hands over a folded paper bag.

“Okay…” Dean looks. Blue plush—Dory? No. ‘BLUE TANG’ so, Dory knockoff. “Dude, what…”

 

_You’re not gonna apologize for loving that fish._

 

Sam throws a sheepish smile that makes Dean miss his bangs. “I got this for me.” Plush knockoff Nemo.

Dean blinks.

“Because-uh… he’s a clown fish?”

Dumb little head-shake.

“Y’know, like, ahhhh!” Sam waves a hand, fake terror.

“What the…” Chuckle starts up. “S’my kinda joke, Sam.” Kid looks so damn proud of himself. Dean’s head falls back. Laughs til his sides ache. Not even all that funny, just…

Once he gets his shit together Dean sticks not-Dory up on the dashboard. Sam puts not-Nemo nose-to-nose. Kissy.

“Dude.”

Sam’s shoulders tilt, _Fight me._

Dean backhands his arm. Heads north.


End file.
